


Undercover Blues

by luvhandlz (lamardeuse)



Category: Dragnet 1967
Genre: Humor, M/M, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/luvhandlz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Bill had spent several hours picking the right outfit for the occasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercover Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Note from lamardeuse: This is not actually my work, but is written by my partner, who believes in the idea that you can slash anyone. He is a sick man. The frightening thing is that Dragnet 1967, with Jack Webb (Joe Friday) and Harry Morgan (Bill Gannon), is actually pretty damn slashy.

Truth was, Joe Friday hated Vice duty. He hated the clothes, the makeup, the inevitable carpet burn on his chin. But he did his duty like a good cop.

On the other hand, Officer Bill loved it. “It’s right up my alley,” he would quip.

They were assigned to a difficult case—a series of drive-by blowjobs. The only clue was the peculiar shade of lipstick left on the victims’ members. Their investigations had led them to a popular night spot called The Purple Python. Officer Bill had spent several hours picking the right outfit for the occasion. He finally settled on a pair of leather chaps which exposed his pert, if sallow, buttocks. It had a matching vest with “Born To Cruise” picked out in rhinestones on the back. Joe wore his regulation LAPD tearaway overalls and false eyelashes from his Elliott Ness makeup kit.

They entered the bar and paused to reconnoiter the joint. Two Indians and a motorcycle cop sat at the bar; a pair of construction workers did a slow grind on the dance floor.

“You know, I never realized the Village People were gay,” said Bill absently.

“What did you think they were doing at the YMCA, swimming?” Joe pronounced nasally as he made his way to the bar. As they passed the traffic cop, he gave Bill a smoldering look. Bill made a moue and twitched his behind saucily in reply. Joe punched him on the arm and said testily, “Pay attention and stop flirting.”

“Fer chrissake, Joe, I was just getting in character. Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. Remember our last Vice case?”

“Oh, you mean those cute bears I hung out with?” asked Bill innocently.

“Yeah, those guys,” Joe muttered between clenched teeth. “Coming home at all hours—and I never did get the cream cheese out of the back of the Plymouth.”

Seating themselves at the bar, Joe ordered drinks. “I’ll have a virgin Shirley Temple, and for my partner—”

Bill cut in. “I’d like the Trouser Snake Float.”

When it arrived, Joe chuckled. “This drink adds new meaning to the word ‘cocktail.’” Bobbing on top were two pearl onions and a Vienna sausage.

“It reminds me of somebody,” Bill husked, sliding his hand up his partner’s thigh. Despite himself, Joe became visibly aroused.

“Yup, the resemblance is startling,” said Bill.

Since things were slow in the bar, the officers decided to find a quiet spot for a quick snog. They made their way to the washroom, which they found to be abandoned. Friday started digging through his purse, a Gucci knockoff.

“Where’s that damned lube?”

Suddenly the bathroom door burst open, striking Officer Bill, who had assumed the position, on the top of his head.

“Ow! Hey!” exclaimed Bill.

Friday, having finally located the Astroglide, squeezed the tube convulsively in surprise, squirting lube in all directions.

“It’s him!” Bill pointed frantically at the Indian standing in the doorway. “Look at his war paint!” It was indeed the same shade of passion purple found at the crime scenes.

Joe fumbled out his badge. “Stop! Police!” The Indian bolted for the nearest exit.

Bill, in hot pursuit, skidded on the lube and crashed into Joe; they fell in a tangled heap.

“Ordinarily, I would enjoy this,” observed Bill.

By the time they regained their feet and followed, the suspect had made it to the parking lot. He leapt into a car and sped off, leaving a rooster tail of gravel.

To add insult to injury, their car had been boxed in by a sloppily parked beige Ford.

“Who drives a chunk of shit like this?” Friday kicked a mismatched fender angrily. “Looks like we’ve lost him, Bill.”

“He’ll be easy to trace, though, Joe,” Bill replied brightly. “There can’t be many Torinos with that paint job.”

“Yeah, kinda looks like a big, striped tomato, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s finish our drinks and have an early night,” suggested Bill. And arm in arm, they went back into the bar.  


**Author's Note:**

> First published February 2005.


End file.
